6*2 
Dost thou pore upon the cloud 
Which futurity doth shroud, 
And thy trembling fancy fill 
With anticipated ill ? 
Ask the lilies of the field 
For the lessons they can yield; 
Lo ! they neither spin nor toil, 
Yet how cheerily they smile ! 
In such beautiful array, 
Solomon, in by-gone day, 
Deck’d in Ophir’s gold and gem, 
Could not equal one of them. 
Hark ! to Fancy’s listening ear 
Thus they whisper soft and clear — 
‘ Heaven-appointed teachers we, 
Mortal, thus would counsel thee: 
Gratefully enjoy to-day, 
If the sun vouchsafe his ray; 
If the darkling tempest lower, 
Meekly bend beneath the shower; 
But, oh ! leave to-morrow’s fare 
To thy Heavenly Father’s care. 
Does each day upon its wing 
Its allotted burden bring ? 
